


not quite wide open

by desdemona (LydiaOfNarnia)



Series: going for gold [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, M/M, Olympics, Reporter!Kenma, Swimmer!Suga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7818601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/desdemona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The opening ceremony has ended, and everyone has their own way of celebrating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not quite wide open

The parade ended half an hour ago, and Kuroo’s heart still hasn't stopped pounding. There's a part of him that doubts it will ever return to its normal rhythm again; after the excitement of tonight, he wouldn't be surprised if he was locked in a state of permanent adrenaline.

Maybe he's having a heart attack. That isn't normal for a healthy young male in his twenties, but he's heard of stranger -- for example, some of the questions these reporters are asking as they scramble en masse to get an interview with any Olympian who will spare them a glance.

“What are the best foods to eat to train up?” he heard one clueless reporter ask as he slips around yet another interview. The unfortunate athlete in question simply chuckles, muttering something about vegetables; after the excitement of tonight, the last thing on anyone’s mind is food.

“Hey hey, Kuroo!”

He's startled by a sudden weight falling across his shoulders, but has the presence of mind not to jump. Only one person has that distinctive greeting, as if the booming voice alone wasn't enough to give him away. He turns his head, coming face to face with his flush-cheeked teammate. Bokuto is always so hyped up that sometimes it's a wonder he manages to get to sleep at night (he does, though, and snores like a foghorn -- Kuroo knows too well).

“The cycling team’s got a buffet at their hotel, and they're inviting everyone! Aww man, we gotta go check it out!”

Alright, so maybe saying Bokuto is ever to distracted to think about food is a bit of an insult. Kuroo ought to know better.

He considers the offer, glancing between his best friend’s excited face and the few members of the cycling team clustered on the outskirts of the crowd. He doesn't know anyone on that team; and if he's being honest, tonight has been so wild that he really doesn't feel like partying. But the night is still young, and he supposed there isn't any harm in it.

“Who else is going?”

“Nishinoya, that wrestler dude with the mohawk, those guys from the track team, that one really tall basketball player --”

Kuroo tunes out Bokuto’s rambling. Making friends comes as easily to Bokuto as volleyball, which is amazing in itself because Bokuto is loud and Kuroo knows firsthand how some people can't handle that. They've been in Rio for two days, and already Bokuto has made more friends on the Japan team, and probably internationally, than Kuroo thinks he's _met_ since they got here.

“Sawamura not coming?” Kuroo asks, glancing around for the captain of their team. Sawamura had made himself scarce shortly after the end of the parade, just managing to avoid the flood of press. Kuroo can only assume he's gone back to their hotel.

“Nah, he left a while ago. C’mon, bro! You coming or not?”

Once more, Kuroo’s eyes rove around the crowd, scoping through reporters and athletes alike. There's just so much to take in that it’s impossible not to be distracted. Even with Bokuto right in front of him, he's convinced it's impossible to focus on just one thing -- until his eyes land on him.

He's not an athlete, Kuroo can tell that much; he bears no muscle to speak of and is not dressed in the Japan uniform, looking lost in this massive crowd. The boy sports bleached blond hair, an awful dye job if Kuroo’s ever seen one (seriously, did he do it himself?), and a red tracksuit that makes him stand out amongst all the other immaculately dressed reporters. No camera crew follows him around; instead he clutches a notepad close to his chest, a pencil tucked behind his ear, ready to write. A journalist, then, Kuroo realizes -- and one who looks entirely out of place in this sea of people.

“Hey, Kuroo?”

“Yeah,” he replies, unable to mask the distracted tone in his voice. He's talking to Bokuto, but his eyes never leave the tiny lone figure in the crowd. He looks almost lost; there is a twinge in Kuroo's chest that feels almost like worry. “Yeah. Hell yeah I'm coming.”

The journalist turns suddenly, catlike golden eyes locking with his. Kuroo can't explain it, but he swears his heart begins to pound even faster.

* * *

 

Perhaps it is typical of Daichi to want to escape the after-parade festivities as soon as he got the chance. Oikawa would call it typical of him, at least; all of his teammates seem to be under the impression that he is far too responsible, too upright to have fun. They might not even be wrong.  _He_ always tells Daichi he takes things far too seriously, too.

Then again, it is Suga. Suga has the ability to be tremendously solemn when the situation calls for it; but his natural temperament is light, gentle and teasing as the fingers that trace along Daichi’s bare skin.

Perhaps a night of adrenaline-fueled revelry, sneaking illicit drinks in a crowd of jubilant people, is not Daichi’s idea of a good time. He won’t deprive his team of their fun -- god knows he has his own ways of celebration.

“It took you long enough!” the other man remarks from where he stands, arms crossed, at the edge of the infinity pool. Daichi rolls his eyes at the rib, shrugging off the awful fluorescent jacket the entire Japan team had been made to wear. Suga has discarded his own, along with the rest of his clothes, on the nearest pool chair; Daichi follows suit. In dripping jammers, hair slicked against his face, it is obvious that Suga passed the time before Daichi got here swimming.

“It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t think the Olympic Village was going to be so big -- I almost got lost twice. Not to mention how many other people are running around out there partying…” He sneaks a glance around the pool area, not sure what to be more impressed with -- the aesthetic appeal of the spot, or the relative isolation of it. Throughout the entire pool area, even despite the mass of people gathered in the Village, he and Suga are the only two people to be seen. “What, do you swimmers get your own pools, too? You’re going to make me jealous.”

Suga gives a tiny chuckle, shaking droplets out of his hair as he steps towards him. “The rest of the team is out partying -- probably where your team is too. This pool is for the swim team’s use _only_.” He says this last word with such a relish that Daichi wants to reach out and kiss the grin off his face.

“If you wanted, we could go out. Take a look at some of the festivities. There have to be more fireworks tonight, right?”

Even if parties are not Daichi’s thing, he would endure -- even enjoy -- them for the other man’s sake. Suga loves fireworks. He also loves teasing, and leaving Daichi wanting more of him even when it would be hard for them to be closer to each other.

“Ah ah. You know the rules,” Suga chides, taking a step back. His eyes gleam in the silvery moonlight. “No dates until we both take home our medals.”

He hadn’t expected anything else -- this has been Suga’s line since the day they met nearly a year ago, the day they first kissed and Daichi realized he was head-over-heels in love. He huffs out a quiet laugh. “And? What if one of us doesn’t get our medal?”

“Don’t be so negative!” Suga exclaims, swiping at Daichi’s side. The other man is just as quick; catching Suga by the arm, he reels him in before Suga has the chance to squirm away. Before either of them are able to take a breath, they find themselves pressed chest-to-chest, noses mere inches from each other.

“Fine,” Daichi concedes. “Let’s both get our medals first. But tonight, isn’t it alright if we…”

Suga’s hooded eyes trail up Daichi’s chest, chin tilting to meet his gaze. “Motivate each other a bit,” he finishes softly. A smile teases Daichi’s face, just small enough to belong to Suga alone. It is another in the vast collection of intimacies they share with each other, hidden away from the eyes of the world.

“My building is closer,” Daichi says, even as Suga’s hands are already wandering up the back of his shirt. “We can -- we can --”

“We can do _anything_ ,” Suga breathes in his ear, lifting the fabric above Daichi’s head and discarding it behind him. Suddenly laid bare to the hot summer air, Daichi can feel heat filling every part of his body, and he _melts_.

* * *

 

It's downright disgusting, watching the way Oikawa refuses to detach himself from around their coach's neck. The two of them have practically been joined at the hip ever since the end of the Parade of Nations. Oikawa is unable to keep his hands off Iwaizumi, even in the middle of a crowded room that more closely resembles a frat party than an "Olympic celebration". Normally Iwaizumi would have less patience to deal with him; but a few shots of something strong have loosened both of their inhibitions, leaving Oikawa clingy and Iwaizumi that much more affectionate.

They think their relationship is a secret. Of all the borderline-insane things Tsukishima has heard in his lifetime -- unfortunately he's heard a lot, considering he's on a team with several of the most irritating people in all of Japan, if not the world -- that takes the cake. The media has a stream of ongoing speculation about the relationship between the National Volleyball Team's setter and coach; fansites dedicated to Oikawa rave about their relationship. The amount of tabloid photos the doubtlessly exist of Oikawa borderline-devouring Iwaizumi's face in public are probably more than the amount of brain cells Bokuto and Nishinoya combined possess. Their romance is an open secret for everyone except themselves, who are still fully convinced they remain incognito to the world.

It's revolting. Tsukishima curls his lip, tearing his eyes away from those two at the bar, before a loud yell from across the room catches his attention. He knows that holler far too well by now -- it's Bokuto, dancing amidst the teeming mass of humanity, and knowing him he's probably about to do something stupid. If Bokuto is there, Kuroo and Nishinoya won't be far behind; Tsukishima wants nothing to do with it.

Sawamura isn't here. Sawamura had been _smart_ , and made off before the reporters could descend after the ceremony in droves. Ushijima had somehow managed to talk himself out of the after-celebrations, no doubt because he was as fun to party with as a brick wall. It had been Tsukishima who wound up getting dragged out by the rest of his excitable team, to a party he has no interest in attending, to stand in a room full of sweaty, hyped up people jumping to thrumming music, while he's got the migraine of the century building in his temples.

Too much excitement for one day. Too much stress, too much noise, too many people. Honestly, it's enough to make Tsukishima resent the Olympics -- just a bit.

Tsukishima tosses back another shot of something bitter and manages not to wince as it burns his throat. Alcohol is not "allowed" in the Olympic village; this stops precisely no one. Sadly, the quality of booze the brave few manage to smuggle in tends to vary. What seems to be going around tonight is both very potent and very deadly. In Tsukishima’s opinion, this is a good combination. The men’s volleyball competitions will not start for another few days, at least -- otherwise he suspects they would all be in deep trouble come morning.

His gaze wanders past the crowds of drunken revellers, across the room to where a large table has been set out in the corner of the room. A group of people are clustered around it; at the center of them is a tall woman with silvery hair and a messy haired, freckled boy whose flushed face speaks to him having consumed more alcohol than he should have. Tsukishima is no expert in the sport, but he recognizes the ping pong paddles in the two people’s hands as they square up on opposite sides of the table.

This is something else that's absolutely ridiculous -- the fact that ping pong is considered an Olympic sport. Obviously these two are competitors, given the trained way they hold the paddles and how they size each other up. The drunk boy’s eyes are bright even in the dark room, and without realizing Tsukishima finds himself venturing closer.

“Come on, Yamaguchi! Give us a good one!” hollers one of the onlookers. The freckled boy tenses, tiny white ball wavering uncertainly in drunken hands. He looks so nervous in front of a crowd that Tsukishima wants to laugh. How can an _Olympian_ get performance anxiety?

He's right up against the table now, pushed forward by the rest of the crowd, and his eyes flash in annoyance at the thrumming of the stereo too close to them. When his gaze locks on Yamaguchi, he falls still; Tsukishima studies the lines of his face, the determined set to his brow, and finds himself baffled.

Maybe it's the combination of alcohol, migraine, and residual adrenaline that send the words flying from his mouth before he can stop them. "Ping pong?" he jeers. "How do you get into the Olympics for ping pong?"

The freckled ping pong player's eyes lock on him and narrow. That's the last thing Tsukishima sees before a tiny white projectile of death flies directly into his eye, shattering the lenses of his glasses with a sickening crack.

He isn't sure what's louder; his shout or Yamaguchi's wail of alarm. In the chaos, the ping pong ball bounces off unnoticed into a crowd of dancing Olympians.

Yes, Tsukishima decides as he cradles his bruised face and departed glasses in both hands, it is official. He hates parties, he hates people, and he _hates_ the Olympics.


End file.
